


hold my hand tight (we'll make it another night)

by cryptidkidprem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comfort, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Tenderness, aka aziraphale gently bullies crowley into being kind to himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22609819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidkidprem/pseuds/cryptidkidprem
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again, and this time his voice is almost unbearably soft. “Maybe you should just… rest for a tic first?”Crowley laughs. Or, he tries to. The sound that actually comes out is a little too wild, a little too desperate to actually be a laugh. “Rest,” he parrots. “Rest. We’ve got the whole of Heaven and Hell after us — us, personally — and I’m just supposed to. What. Take a quick nap?”“If that will make you feel better, yes,” Aziraphale answers plainly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 257





	hold my hand tight (we'll make it another night)

**Author's Note:**

> alright here it is lads. the obligatory and extremely self-indulgent aziraphale takes care of crowley when he's panicking fic. crowley deserves some tlc and we love projecting in this house hold.
> 
> sort of a hybrid of book n show canon. i hate crowley's apartment from the show so i used the book description even tho obvi this is right before the body swap scene from the show.
> 
> title comes from 'devil town' by cavetown because i'm gay. and it is a lowkey crowley song.

What they don’t tell you about trying to stop the world from ending is how exhausting the whole business is. Crowley can’t remember ever being this tired in his _life_ , including the time he slept through most of a century. All of his muscles have turned rubbery, his limbs heavy as lead, head full of cotton.

By the time they make it back to the flat in Mayfair, Crowley is, frankly, a bit worried about how he’s even going to get the door unlocked; he’s shaking like a, a… Whatever it is that shakes, and he’s not sure how bad his coordination’s bound to be at the moment.

It turns out to be a nonissue; his door’s standing ajar when they get up to his floor. Right, yeah. When he bolted earlier, he hadn’t even bothered to close it.

“Only slightly ominous,” Aziraphale comments wryly as Crowley leads him in from the hall.

Crowley shrugs weakly. “World was ending, angel. Had to get out quick.”

Aziraphale accepts that with no complaint (a testament to how tired they both are) and shuts the door carefully behind him, clicking the lock and the deadbolt into place. It won’t do much against angry angels or demons, but it makes them both _feel_ a little more secure anyway.

Crowley kicks his shoes off and lets his jacket fall to the floor in a heap. He’s still got soot all over himself, getting his plush white carpet all mucked up like he’s trailing the day in after him tangibly.

Whatever. He doesn’t have the energy to care about that right now. He barely has the energy to remain standing, and he’s in for a long night.

Anyway, the floor’s already ruined, what with the mess in the—

Crowley pulls up short, stops in his tracks. “Oh, um.” He turns back to Aziraphale. “Just. Just to warn you. Don’t be alarmed, but I. Might’ve used your insurance.”

“Use my—” He starts, confused, and then Crowley sees the exact moment it clicks into place. His eyes go very wide, his face blanches. “Oh, good lord, Crowley. You—”

“I had too,” Crowley cuts in. “I told you. It wasn’t for me.”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Still.” He rubs a hand over his chest. “Do you have any idea how _dangerous_ —“ He cuts himself off. “Actually. Never mind. I don’t want to even _think_ about— you’re here. You’re fine. Let’s just. Yes.”

“Yes,” Crowley repeats, staring blankly. He thinks describing himself as _fine_ is a bit of a stretch even on his best days, but he’s alive, anyway, and he doesn’t want to argue. “Um.”

He doesn’t know what to say now. He doesn’t know what to _do_. The world didn’t end. No matter how strung out he feels, he shouldn’t still be _this_ scared, but…

He’s been fueling himself on desperate, screaming fear and anxiety all week, and in order to keep going, keep pushing forward, he couldn’t really let himself _feel_ it. It was there, underneath it all, and now there’s no apocalypse save for a very personal one that might be awaiting himself and Aziraphale, and whatever dams he was holding it all back with are cracking open.

He swallows. “Drinks?” He offers, gesturing vaguely with a shaky hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

Aziraphale hums speculatively, and then he sighs. “I think we should keep our heads clear, actually,” he reasons, although he says it like he’s not _happy_ about saying it. “If we’re to be _playing with fire_ , that is.”

Crowley drags his hand over his face, through his hair. “Right.”

Maybe he’s not holding it together as well as he thought, because the look Aziraphale gives him is speculative.

Worried, almost.

(Okay. Worried, _definitely_. But Crowley’s having a hard time accepting that Aziraphale might be worried _for_ _him_ so it doesn’t really fit into place yet.)

“Is everything—”

“It’s fine,” Crowley cuts him off swiftly.

He can’t go down that road right now. He can’t handle it on top of everything else. He just has to… hold it together until after they’ve _not died_.

“Crowley…”

Crowley shakes his head. “Let’s just figure this out?”

Aziraphale meets his eyes. Or, Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes through his shades, but even with the glasses in the way, Crowley feels terribly _seen_.

There’s a moment of silence, amplified and stretched into endlessness by the erratic rhythm of Crowley’s heart, the charged, breathless space between them, that little worried crease between Aziraphale’s brows.

Slowly, Aziraphale purses his lips, pulls them into a thin line.

And Crowley, well. Crowley’s never been very good at being patient, even back when he was still an angel and time didn’t exist yet.

He breaks first, screwing his eyes shut. “Fuck.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again, and this time his voice is almost unbearably soft. “Maybe you should just… rest for a tic first?”

Crowley laughs. Or, he tries to. The sound that actually comes out is a little too wild, a little too desperate to actually be a laugh. “Rest,” he parrots. “ _Rest_. We’ve got the whole of Heaven and Hell after us — us, personally — and I’m just supposed to. What. Take a quick nap?”

“If that will make you feel better, yes,” Aziraphale answers plainly.

“They’re _coming_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley— he doesn’t whine. He just… Gets a bit shrill, maybe.

“Not right this moment.”

“They _could_ , you don’t know,” Crowley says desperately.

Why can’t he just. See? Why is Crowley the only one who’s as worried as he should be? How can he bloody rest when Aziraphale could just be... _Gone_ when he opens his eyes?

“They know where I _live_ , Aziraphale. One second they’re on the telly — absolutely _ruining_ Golden Girls, too — and they’re telling me how I’ve wrecked everything, and then they’re breaking in, and trying to drag me off to Hell, and when I get to the bookshop and it’s on fire, and you’re _gone_ , and everything is _burning_ and the whole world is _ending_ and they—they’ll take _everything_ the second they catch up and I can’t just, just—”

And he breaks off, mid-sentence. That’s it. That’s all he has.

He just. _Can’t_.

Can’t go on. Can’t get enough air in his stupid lungs to make any more words. Which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t even need to breathe, for talking or anything else. He spent most of the day holding his breath. He doesn’t even need a heart, so it shouldn’t be so alarming that his suddenly feels like it’s on the fritz, kicking against his ribs like it’s trying to break him apart from inside.

It shouldn’t _matter_.

But really, if he dies _now_ that’ll just put him right into Hell’s hands, exactly where they want him, so this is really the worst possible time for his stupid body to just decide it’s going to stop working, not when there’s still so much to do before he’s safe, before _Aziraphale’s_ safe—

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Dimly, Crowley becomes aware that Aziraphale’s saying his name.

Crowley’s eyes, slightly fuzzy and stinging uncomfortably, snap back up to him.

“Aziraphale,” and yes, alright, he’s whining now, properly whining. “ _Angel_.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale steps in, both hands on Crowley’s shoulders, steady on. “My dear, listen,” he says softly, the gentleness in his voice a balm on Crowley’s overheating skin. “I’m sorry about the shop, and I’m sorry about the Bentley, and above all I’m very sorry that you had to handle all of this on your own, that I left you here alone.”

Crowley gives his head a jerky shake. “Not your fault,” he chokes out.

“I know,” Aziraphale tells him. “I’m not apologizing. I’m just sorry it happened. I’m sorry you were scared, and hurt. You’ve had— goodness, there has been quite a lot on your shoulders these past few days, hasn’t there?”

Crowley sucks in a weak, stuttering breath, bites the inside of his cheek. He shakes his head feebly; it’s really hard to disagree with Aziraphale when he turns all the kindness and gentleness in his soul on Crowley, who’s not used to getting so much as a teaspoon of either from anyone, but it’s equally hard to actually take what what he’s saying to heart.

“Do you trust me, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley doesn’t even need to think about it. “‘Course.”

Aziraphale nods. “Alright. Will you trust me with this?”

Crowley tilts his head, confused.

Aziraphale smiles gently. “Can you trust me to find a way out of this for us while you rest? I can figure out this prophecy business myself, and keep us safe. Will you trust me now, and leave this bit to me?”

“I…” Crowley trails off.

Gears turn in Crowley’s head as he really thinks about what he’s being asked. He shouldn’t dump all of this onto Aziraphale’s lap, but… Crowley trusts Aziraphale with his life, and now Aziraphale’s offering to make good on that trust. And Crowley has to trust him to know what he can handle.

When he puts it like that, it all seems— it almost feels like...

It feels like a physical weight lifts from his shoulders.

Crowley swallows, and then, with a pathetic sort of keening sound, he sort of half-lunges/half-falls forward, right into Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale catches him, holds him up, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley, body practically turned to jelly, sags against him. Steadying himself, face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, he twists his arms around his back, hands clutching his jacket in a death grip.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you,” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s hair. And he does; his arms around Crowley are strong, firm, and unimaginably gentle, holding him up with an ease that’s almost frightening.

With the angel’s arms around him, and using a near monumental force of will he thought himself quite incapable of in his current state, Crowley takes one, painfully slow step away from the verge of a full-blown panic attack, pulling himself away from a terrifying abyss, and settling, slowly but surely, into Aziraphale’s embrace instead.

When he feels Aziraphale shift, like he’s moving to pull away, Crowley’s heart skips and he makes a sudden sound of protest, actual words outside his ability right now.

“Oh, no, don’t fret, I’ve got you, let me just—”

With some gentle maneuvering, Aziraphale manages to get Crowley into the living room, and Crowley lets him guide him down onto his own pristine leather couch.

Aziraphale holds him close (closer than they’ve ever allowed themselves to be in 6,000 years) and lets Crowley drape himself over him, lets him hide against his neck, slide his arms under his jacket and lock his hands around his back.

That’s all it takes, really. The last little scrap of energy he’d been clutching close in white-knuckled fists finally slips through his fingers, and, boneless, he drifts off.

The last thing he’s really aware of before passing out completely is the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers combing gently through his hair.

—

When Crowley wakes, the first thing he becomes aware of is that there’s a blanket over him. The next is that he’s laying down, a fluffy feather pillow under his head between him and the sofa.

And then, a moment later, as the world drifts back to him, comes the most jarring realization— he realizes he’s _alone_ , which is certainly not how he fell asleep last night.

He twists urgently and jerks upright, head darting side-to-side, seeing only his empty living room and sending a torrent of icy terror down his spine.

“Angel?” He calls out.

“I’m here,” comes Aziraphale’s voice, from the direction of the hall.

Crowley snaps his head around, and sure enough, there he is.

As soon as he sees him, standing there, unharmed, only a handful of feet away, he deflates a little, throat opening back up and letting air in, sudden fear punctured by even more sudden relief.

“You were gone,” he says stupidly, staring up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Terribly sorry, didn’t mean to worry you. I haven’t left, I’d hoped to be back before you woke. I was just in the kitchen. Felt like some tea.”

Crowley swallows, nodding slowly.

“I’ve made you a cup as well,” Aziraphale says, holding up a mug and moving forward to place it on the coffee table.

Crowley should thank him. He should say _something_. But he’s still trying to reorient himself, and… this is not helping, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Did you sleep well?” Aziraphale asks.

“Erm,” Crowley says, but when he thinks on it, he did. He feels rested, which isn’t something he usually feels. Even when it’s _not_ the morning after the end of the world, he’s usually groggy and sluggish. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Glad to hear it.”

Crowley clears his throat, goes to push his hair off his forehead, and stills half-way there. “Where are my glasses?”

“Just there, on the end table,” Aziraphale tells him, nodding to his left.

Crowley twists around, and sure enough, his sunglasses are neatly folded on the table next to where his head just was. “Oh.”

“Hardly seemed comfortable to sleep in sunglasses,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley reaches over, runs a finger over cautiously the rims. He thinks of putting them on, and decides against it. He pulls his hand back slowly and fusses with his shirtsleeve instead. “Do you. Did you… the prophecy.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Yes, I’ve got it sorted. No need to worry, we’ll be fine.”

“You—”

“I’ve solved it, yes. And I’ll tell you all about it after you drink your tea.”

Crowley blinks slowly up at Aziraphale, solid and peaceful and just a bit smug.

He’s never felt— he’s never been— and here’s Aziraphale, in his flat, making him tea and covering him in blankets and coming up with life-saving plots all on his own just so Crowley can sleep for a few hours, which is something he doesn’t even technically need to do.

He obligingly picks up his mug, blows on it softly out of habit, and takes a sip. It’s exactly how he likes it; the perfect number of sugars and the right amount of milk (which is to say, more of each than actual tea), warm enough to send a comforting heat through him, but not hot enough to burn.

He’s never been sure — he’s _hoped_ , yes. Heaven help him (eugh) he’s hoped, but now he’s got his proof that over the millennia Crowley’s been paying attention to Aziraphale, Aziraphale’s been paying just as much attention to him.

His hands don’t shake as he sets the tea back on the coffee table, but it’s a near thing.

“This duvet isn’t mine,” he comments lamely, because it’s the first thing that pops into his head.

“No,” Aziraphale confirms, calm as ever. “I didn’t want to go poking around in your things while you were asleep, so I just—” he wiggles his fingers. “I normally prefer to _buy_ my bed clothes, but I didn’t want you to be cold.”

His voice does not shake either, but that, too, is a very near thing. “You miracled me a blanket.”

“And a pillow,” Aziraphale adds. “I know you fancy your _style_ —” he says the word like it’s vaguely offended him— “but your sofa is not very forgiving. I wanted you to be comfortable.”

And that’s. Yeah, okay, that’s about as much as Crowley can take.

Look, he’s only hu— well, actually, he’s _not_ human, so that’s not a great metaphor. But he’s just one person. One person who has loved, _fiercely_ , for so long, that when he finally gets some of that love _returned_ …

Crowley swings his legs off the couch and stands. It only takes him three quick steps to cross to where Aziraphale’s standing, throw his arms around him, and kiss him.

Aziraphale inhales sharply through his nose, and then his hands are sliding up Crowley’s sides, and he’s kissing Crowley back.

It’s nothing dramatic. It’s not grand, or desperate, despite how grand and desperate Crowley’s love has felt on occasion.

It just happens, like course it was always going to happen. It’s more just like… finally coming home after a very long, hard day. It warms Crowley in much the same way the tea Aziraphale brought him did; spreading slowly out from his his lips where they meet Aziraphale’s, radiating all the way out to his fingertips and toes.

He pulls away only the scant few centimeters he needs to use his mouth for words again, and says, “I love you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiles, kisses Crowley again, just a brief press of lips. “I know.” Another kiss. “I love you too.”

And Crowley, ever the wordsmith, can only seem to respond to that with a very eloquent, “Gosh.”

Aziraphale breaks out into a wide, beaming grin. He leans in presses a soft kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “I’m sure you won’t like me saying it, but you really are _quite_ adorable sometimes.”

Crowley crinkles his nose, squeezes his eyes shut. He bumps his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “S’not so bad, now,” he admits.

“Hm.” Aziraphale brings a hand up to Crowley’s face, palm on his cheek, thumb alighting on his cheekbone. “Is that so?”

Crowley’s face is burning, flushing like some Victorian maiden coming down with consumption. “Maybe.”

Crowley’s eyes are still shut, but doesn’t need to see him to know Aziraphale’s smiling; Crowley hear it in his voice. “Well. If I’d known the trick to get you to let me say nice things about you was just to kiss you, I would have done it sooner.”

He’s joking; teasing, gently, but it makes Crowley’s heart seize up just a bit, his arms tighten around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’d’ve wanted to kiss me sooner?”

“If I’m being honest,” Aziraphale says, “I can’t quite recall what it feels like to _not_ want to kiss you.”

And really, how can Crowley’s do anything but lean in and kiss him again after that?

When they finally pull apart again, Crowley’s lost his breath, but this time is so much better than last night. There’s no panic, just the feeling of finally having something you’ve wanted for a desperately long time. “You said,” He starts, voice hoarse, “you said you have a plan? We’re gonna be okay? ‘Cause I can’t. I couldn’t fucking stand losing you now, angel.”

“I do,” Aziraphale confirms. “We’re going to be okay. We _aren’t_ going to lose each other.” He’s holding Crowley’s face between his hands now, meeting his unguarded gaze head-on. “How about we sit down and talk about it?”

Crowley nods slowly, not wanting to dislodge the angel’s hands. Aziraphale smiles at him with all the warmth of the sun at the height of summer.

For the second time, Crowley lets himself be guided to his own couch.

It’s not so bad this time; in fact, as Crowley situates himself on the cushions, hands held firmly and tenderly in Aziraphale’s, he feels lighter than air, the distinct feeling of _hope_ returning to his heart and camping there.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u all for reading ! if ur on tumblr feel free 2 stop by n say hi to me over there [@ lovesickcrowley](https://lovesickcrowley.tumblr.com/). :3c


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